


May-December Splendor

by Bunnyhops



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnyhops/pseuds/Bunnyhops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Has the Minister's advisor set to seduce him or is it the other way round?</p>
            </blockquote>





	May-December Splendor

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._ **

****

****

“I’m not that bossy!” Hermione muttered while she stomped into the grocers.

 

As she yanked a cart from its row, she continued to hiss and moan to herself so adamantly people were giving her a wide berth, coupled with strange looks.

 

Hermione threw items into her cart – except the eggs, she didn’t toss the eggs. “And I happen to like my hair! They’re just jealous because they’re losing theirs!”

 

An elderly lady passed her by and Hermione took the opportunity to get someone else’s opinion. “Bossy is not overcompensation for lack of a love life, right?” she almost pled.

 

The lady smiled uncomfortably and responded. “Of course not, dear.”

 

“Right,” Hermione agreed and moved on without noticing the lady quickening her step to move away from the slightly hysterical witch.

 

Before she knew it, Hermione was at the cashier’s booth paying for more chocolate ice cream than she remembered handling.

 

Walking out of the store in a trance, she replayed the conversation she’d had with her so-called best friends. She over analyzed, over assessed, and over evaluated each word, message, perceived intent, and gesture.

 

Dejected and at a loss for what to do except poach some eggs and eat gallons of ice cream, she slowly walked home. It seemed fitting that the weather turned dark and it began to rain, making the air around her hot and humid, and the hair around her frizzy.

 

If those two things weren’t bad enough, her ice cream was melting all over her white t-shirt. She was certain that her magic, due to her highly unstable emotional state, was accelerating the demise of her frozen companions: Coffee Caramel Buzz, Chocolate Therapy, and Chunky Monkey.

 

Hermione arrived home and walked the few steps up to her door to her rather large residence. She’d saved and invested, and made sure that every potion she brewed was useful to the wizarding communities. And with Malfoy’s help, many of her potions were sold to Muggle pharmacology, making them both rich; well, making Malfoy more rich and Hermione just rich.

 

As a reward to herself, she’d purchased this beautiful uptown townhome in South Kensington, a wealthy part of London. She’d fallen in love with it as soon as she had stepped foot in the foyer. Malfoy had been the one to make her aware of its vacancy and talked her into to taking a chance to look at it. Never had an impulsive bone lived in her body, but on that day, she’d given Malfoy the nod, and ended up paying for it in full and moving in by the end of the following week. She hadn’t even questioned herself on the size of the home, or if she needed this much space. She now worried that she’d never be able to fill it with the sounds of laughter or love or friends. She also didn’t pause to check out the neighbors. Hermione was now flanked by Draco Malfoy on one end and Rabastan Lestrange on the other.

 

In truth, she loved them both, but sometimes it was just too much. They were both gayer than a pocket full of rainbows… another small fact that Draco hadn’t mentioned: they were in the wealthy and _gay_ part of the city. She didn’t care, it was a nice neighborhood and she always had a shopping buddy, but it was impossible to meet straight men.

 

Rabastan Lestrange had been absolved of guilt once the magical residue from Rodolphus, Bellatrix, and Voldemort had been found in his magic. The younger Lestrange had been under the _Imperious_ for years. Not that he had suddenly turned into all sweetness and light, but things had changed and Rabastan did smile much more often than he used to.

 

With Draco and Rabastan in Hermione’s close circle of friends, Ron and Harry had also continued to play an important role in her life. She had grown up with them, suffered through tremendous amounts of stress, anxiety and pain with them; aside from the normal teenage awkwardness, and had felt like they were closer to family than friends. That was all over now, but she couldn’t just flip a switch and turn off all emotion for them.

 

Hermione wasn’t particularly close to either of their wives, but she was close to Tonks and Teddy, and Kingsley Shacklebolt; both of which lived in the neighborhood to the left and shared a grocer with Hermione, Draco, and Rabastan.

 

Kingsley was a different animal. Hermione had been working as one of his Ministry advisors for three years, and in that time, she’d developed a terrible crush. It was physically painful for her to know he was not attracted to her in the least. Though he valued her opinion, that much was obvious, she wanted more.

 

Hermione thought he was extremely handsome and he was always a gentleman to her. At parties, they would seemingly be drawn to each other, spending the evening talking about everything under the sun, but after a time, Kingsley would pull back and take his leave. It was disheartening to Hermione to say the least.

 

Each time he saw her, he would wave and say: “Good day, Miss Granger.”

 

Hermione would respond similarly, “Good day, Minister.”

 

She never took it for more than it was: a greeting. He probably had witches falling all over him all the time. He wouldn’t see anything in Hermione that he hadn’t run into a thousand times before.

 

She always tried to look her best when she knew he was going to be around, but he never noticed. Even Draco started helping her get ready and Rabastan was schooling her on the art of subtle flirting, but still, it seemingly had no effect on Kingsley. Each time she’d thought she’d made progress by catching a certain expression on Kingsley’s face as he watched her or if he stood close enough to her for the heat from his body to melt the bones in her knees, he would jerk to a straight-backed position and walk away.

 

Draco had taken pity on her one night at one of Rabastan’s soirees and danced her until she couldn’t dance anymore. Kingsley had watched them briefly, with a scowl on his face then left shortly thereafter.

 

Today, she thought as she whispered the enchantment to dismantle her wards, was a complete waste.

 

Harry and Ron had told her in no uncertain terms that they were tired of her, that they hated that she lived where she lived, that she had let bygones be bygones and were friends with Draco Malfoy and other ‘snakes’, and was acting like a coward – hiding behind her job. Then they had insulted her, probably because she had just stood there looking at them in shock. It was an uncomfortable silence, but after the first three jibes, she’d picked up her stuff, blinked away the tears, and left the two.

 

The two wizards, lifelong friends, had shared a guilty look as Hermione had departed, but they told themselves that it was for the greater good; that if they hadn’t done this, two people that they loved wouldn’t find happiness. That rationalization didn’t absolve them of the guilt and physical pain of watching their best friend blink away tears of betrayal. However, Ronald and Harry were confident that this was what she needed to put things in motion.

 

It was raining again, her shirt was ruined, she was sobbing, and sitting slumped over on the first step of her landing.

 

This was right before she wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

 

“Miss Granger?”

 

Hermione recognized that voice. _NOOOO! Not him, please not him!_ she railed in her head.

 

“Miss Granger, are you alright?” His voice was deep and smooth and just the sound of it made her want to close her eyes and exhale.

****

**_Kingsley_ **

 

The war had been over for seven years, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had been Minister most of those years. He was currently in his second term, and he hoped he would be lucky enough to be reelected for his third and final term as Minister of Magic.

 

During the Death Eater Trials, as they were coined, Kingsley had become involved in the story of the younger Lestrange brother. The young man and his history had struck a chord in Kingsley’s heart, prompting him to take the wizard under his wing. As a result, Kingsley made a point to check on Rabastan at least three times a week since his pardon.

 

However, since the lovely Hermione… Miss Granger, he corrected himself; since Miss Granger had moved in, Rabastan had seemed happier and Kingsley knew the three: young Malfoy, Rabastan and Miss Granger, frequently spent time together.

 

To Kingsley’s knowledge, Hermione had pulled Rabastan out of one of his valleys. Depression. It was a side-effect from the Imperious Curse. It didn’t occur with victims who had succumbed once or twice, but from the research he’d conducted, it was fairly common among long-time sufferers.

 

His mind drifted to a highly frequented subject as he was returning from the grocer’s: Hermione Granger and the first time he’d realized that Hermione was no longer the brave, but slightly insufferable know-it-all school girl that he’d known. She was now a grown woman with a warm, if not slightly biting, personality, luxurious hair, full lips, small waist and a round, but firm bum. In a nutshell: perfect for him.

 

Miss Granger had basically rescued him at one of many Ministry functions. He had finally taken a moment to sit alone and sip his wine, when a petite witch with expressive eyes, a head full of thick, delicious curls and a body to die for sat by him.

 

“Hi,” she greeted with a smile.

 

“Hello, Miss Granger.”

 

“Are you having fun?” she asked.

 

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she’d giggled. Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispered, “Have any of them hit on you, yet?” She asked referring to the gaggle of witches constantly following the Minister, but never saying a word only cooing in obvious approval. Hermione had always rolled her eyes when he’d made some arrant remark and the group of them had cackled like hyena.

 

The teasing gleam in her eyes was too much for him; it made him smile. “No.”

 

She sat back. “No, I guess not. You’re much too intimidating.” It was a casual statement, but also curious.

 

“You think so?” he asked. He knew he could be intimidating, especially if he didn’t smile, but he didn’t want her to be intimidated.

 

This time she cocked an eyebrow. It made him smile for the second time that night.

 

“Of course, you don’t intimidate _me,_ but I can see how you might others.”

 

“Why aren’t you intimidated?” he asked.

 

She’d looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Because I’m tough, and I am fairly certain I could take you.” And he knew it to be true, but it still made the normally quiet and regal wizard laugh out loud at her bold statement.

 

The conversation flowed from there.

 

That was four years ago. His feelings for her had only deepened, but he couldn’t reveal them. She was fifteen years his junior. She was too good for him. She was a Gryffindor and everyone knew that Gryffindors should marry other Gryffindors. She worked for him. And one last, but compelling, reason that he still couldn’t get out of his mind was the way she’d looked when she’d shown up at the cottage after they’d escaped Malfoy Manor all those years ago.   Shell shocked; that was the only way to describe her. She was pale, thin, and exhausted, functioning on adrenaline and little else.

 

Kingsley hadn’t seen her in a year, but he wasn’t expecting such a drastic change.

 

When he heard what they, _she_ , had been through, he couldn’t forgive himself for not doing more than act as a Ministry spy.

 

He shook his head. This was an exercise in futility. A relationship would never work. She needed someone young and untainted by life; not him, he was jaded.

 

Though if Potter, Weasley and Malfoy could be trusted, perhaps…

****

**_Harry, Ron, and Draco_ **

 

“I’m telling you, he’s …off!” Ron said in low tones as they walked quietly down the Minister’s Corridor, keeping to the shadows.  

 

“Tell me again, what you two dunderheads think to accomplish by this visit? A trip to Azkaban perhaps?” Draco didn’t let them answer; he only continued his whispered tirade. “I’ve been there; it’s not all it’s cracked up to be!” His voiced objections didn’t stop him from accompanying the two though.

 

Harry peeked around the corner. “We need a plan. She’s been pining after him for years.”

 

“Maybe he’s just not that into her,” Draco reasoned. That statement made the two in front of him pause to look back at him with horrified expressions. Draco huffed. “Honestly, you know I adore the little chit, but if he’s not interested then he’s not interested. You can’t force him, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them, plus she’d murder all of us!”

 

Harry sighed. “You’re right, but I want to know for certain that he isn’t interested.”

 

Draco nodded and sighed and looked at the redhead. Ronald pulled out a small vial filled with purple liquid from his inside robe’s pocket. Wiggling his eyebrows, he smiled and shook the container.

 

Veritas Serum.

 

Boy wonder’s idea.

 

_We’re going to Azkaban_ , thought Draco dismally.

 

They reached the Minister’s office with no trouble. The door was ajar and Kingsley was inside pacing. He had a drink in his hand and a bottle of Ogdens in the other. It looked like he’d been at this for a while.

 

Harry rapped on the door and pushed it open. “Minister,” he said greeting the wizard who fought beside him.

 

A broad smile graced the features of Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Potter, old boy! What a surprise,” he said. As Kingsley moved forward to grasp Harry’s outstretched hand, the large man swayed precariously, prompting Draco and Ron to jump to catch him before he fell.

 

In a concerted effort, they walked him to the leather couch and sat him down, pouring a drink for them all.

 

Kingsley, still smiling and teetering, asked, “What brings you?”

 

Draco was ready to convey ‘the happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood speech’, and Harry faltered slightly between wanting to get to the point and happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood… at-10pm. However, Ron, being full bore Gryffindor, gave no pause at all, and blurted, “Why don’t you want ‘Mione?” This made all four men cringe.

 

Harry watched Kingsley’s reaction closely and when the man sighed, closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch; Harry knew the man had it just as bad if not worse than Hermione. Accio-ing the vial in Ron’s pocket, Harry quickly and silently poured the contents into the Minister’s drink, which was sitting on the end table _without a coaster_ – Draco noted.

 

Kingsley opened his eyes and sat up. Reaching for the tumbler of Ogdens, he held the rim to his lips and swallowed the remainder in one go. Draco poured another two fingers and waited for an explanation. Kingsley seemed to be having some kind of internal conversation, because he was staring off into space and shaking his head occasionally.

_Internal conflict. Right up Hermione’s alley._ “Minister?” Draco asked.

 

His dark brown eyes snapped to Draco.

 

Kingsley smiled then. “Right. Miss Granger.” He hadn’t become a spy nor been able to negotiate around politics by being Naïve, these boys were up to something, but at this point, he couldn’t care less. Curiously, he felt …strange; like he wanted to tell these boys, men, everything. “I want her.”

 

Draco, Ron and Harry nodded, wanting the man to continue.

 

“I’m too old for games.”  


“Hermione doesn’t play games.”  


“I’m too old – period.”

 

“Hermione’s too old for _us_ … emotionally, I mean,” Ron added. No one could really argue that point.

 

“She works for me.”

 

“Fire her.” This made each man look at Draco like he was mad. “What? She’d get over it.”

 

Kingsley snorted. “It would be to my professional detriment if I fired her. She’s the best advisor I have, and I am certain the best advisor this office has seen since its inception.”

 

“Plus she’d hex you,” Harry commented making each man nod in agreement.

 

“She’s not interested in me… as a woman is to a man.”

 

Silence met his comment, validating the sentiment he thought. She wasn’t interested. He took another long swallow.

 

The three wizards had no idea how to say something so simple like she wants to eat you whole? It was Draco who broke the silence. “She’s been trying to get your attention for years. You don’t seem to see her as a witch.”

 

Kingsley, who looked far too sober, met the gray eyes of young Malfoy. “I see her. I just can’t... She’s beautiful and smart and kind and loyal and pure. I’m a dirty old man with scars and paranoia. She smells nice, too,” he added a chipper note.

 

Another swig of liquor and the Minister sighed, closing his eyes. The conversation was over. Before Harry left, he placed his hand on Kingsley’s shoulder. “Freedom lies in being bold, Kings. Be bold – she likes that!” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

**_Present_ **

 

Walking and thinking, Kingsley heard mewling and sniffles. Rounding the corner, he came upon the wild-haired witch he knew as Hermione; Miss Granger.

 

“Miss Granger?”

 

Hermione tensed.

 

“Miss Granger, are you alright?”

 

She looked up at him with sorrowful hazel eyes. He felt the familiar trappings of blood rushing from his brain to his nether region; it was dizzying.

 

It was mildly shameful to him that a crying witch turned him on. Tears made him want to possess her and the fact that this witch, who was strong and independent, was crying made him want to bend her over his desk and push himself into her… _with ardor_.

 

His eyes roamed freely over the scene. Though, right now, he thought, she was a mess.

 

Kingsley raised his wand and cast an _Evanesco_ for the melted ice cream. “Let’s get you inside,” he said.

 

She sat on her couch and watched him move gracefully around her small kitchen; pulling down glasses and saucers, and setting a tray of chocolate biscuits he found. His size seemed to dominate the room, making the ceiling seem lower and the walls shrink. He was wearing casual Muggle clothing that emphasized his muscled chest, flat stomach, and sculpted arms. His t-shirt was left untucked over loosely fit denims. The denims, she thought, were made for him. Perfectly fit over toned legs and a firm bum.

 

Hermione sighed. He was beautiful. Graceful. Kind. Smart. Everything she wanted. Her fingers itched to touch his skin, which was the color of melted chocolate. And his hands; oh, his hands – she was a hands girl – were exquisite: large and masculine. She imagined those hands and the contrast they would bring against the paleness of her skin. His calloused palms against the soft skin of her thighs. His large fingers wrapped around her small wrists.

 

“Hermione!” Kingsley’s sharp tone snapped her out of her reverie. She blinked and removed her hand, which had subconsciously begun to trail lightly over the skin of her collar bone, settling it with the other. Swallowing she said, “Yes, sorry. What were you saying?”

 

He scowled and sat down across from her. “I apologize for my tone and familiar address, but you didn’t seem to hear me the first few times I called your name.”

 

Hermione didn’t know what to say, and so stuttered her way through a response. “I- sure. Right. It’s fine. Sorry.”

 

Handing her a glass of iced tea, he asked the question. “What’s the problem then?” It was all very formal. He was sitting on the edge of the cushion, back straight, hands clasped, feet shoulder width apart. His tone was clinical and he was looking at her like she was a law-breaker. It set her ire, and in response, she placed her glass on the table and mirrored his position. Leaning forward, facing him with direct eye contact, she replied, “My problem is that you’re in my home, interrogating me.”

 

Kingsley immediately pulled back, clearly ruffled at her aggression. “It’s not an interrogation. I was merely concerned. You are under my employ and a trusted Ministry confidant; of course, I would like to help if I’m able.”

 

“Because you are my boss and I am a trusted Ministry confidant?” she mimicked.

 

He paused then nodded. “Yes.”

 

The pain in her chest was preventing her from breathing at the moment, and so she tried a different tack. “Our professional relationship aside, I consider you a friend, Kings. Someone I’ve been able to get to know outside of war. Someone I’ve grown to care for as more than a colleague.” Hermione’s voice grew quieter and Kingsley flexed his fingers. A nervous habit she recognized.

 

Rabastan said subtle touches; innocent touches were provocative. Hermione hadn’t exercised that particular technique, but she did now. Laying her hand on his large, muscled forearm, she squeezed softly.

 

She was trying in vain to control her body from the anxious shaking. Terrified was the word that would describe her at the moment. She was placing all her cards on the table, letting him know how she felt – to a minor degree. She couldn’t very well tell him she loved him and wanted to shag his brains out until neither of them could walk, but she wanted him to know that she welcomed any advanced he may engage in. “More than a friend, maybe.” The sentence was whispered and she ventured a glance at his face.

 

Once what she said was registered and processed, he pulled his hand away as if she’d burned him. “No!” he barked and stood vehemently shaking his head.

 

Hermione gasped and stood as well, swallowing down the bile of rejection. “Why?” she asked. She was thankful her voice was clear and concise and not whiny. “We’re both adults.”

 

He looked like a trapped animal wanting nothing more than to flee; and she would have let him then cried herself to sleep, but when he moved to walk around her, she saw it: the slight bulge. His hand immediately went to cover it, but she grabbed him. “You-“ She was interrupted by the man in question taking her hand and pressing it gently to his groin. “I like you, Hermione. I want you, but I can’t do that to you.” He was so close.

 

The body heat coming from him was invasive. The spicy male scent pervaded her senses. His presence was consuming.   She closed her eyes and lifted her head not hearing the last part. Her hand was still cupped over his covered erection and his hand was still pressing it in place.

 

The air was heady and her parted lips, glistening skin, and small hand squeezing in pulses affected his mind. He found himself hunching his shoulders to close the distance between their lips, while his other arm snaked around her petite frame to pull her closer.

 

Their lips met with an intensity that surprised him. Soft plump lips met their warm, wet, feminine counter. Moving and licking, coaxing and sucking, the passion of the kiss brought them to an exhilarating satisfaction. Breathing through their noses, the slurps of their tongues and moaned pleasure of finally ending the unrequited feelings were the only sounds in the room.

Somewhere along the lines, he’d picked her up and she’d wrapped her legs around his hips. He was walking slowly to her bedroom murmuring and kissing and squeezing.

 

“I’m too …mmmmpphhhh… old for you,” he rushed.

 

Hermione pulled up his t-shirt and tossed it behind them. She immediately latched on to his shoulder, nipping and caressing and causing him to moan.

 

“ _I’m_ too old for me.”

 

They reached her bed both topless, her frantically trying to unbutton his denims and him attempting to spread her legs wider and humping while walking. Now they were stood still, humping and unbuttoning. “You’re under my employ.” * _bite_ *

 

“Yessssss,” she hissed. “I quit.”

 

They fell onto the bed still trying to merge into one person. Their clothes had been shed and they were skin to skin, him settled in between her legs, her peppering his shoulders and face with small kisses and him trying to touch every inch of exposed skin on her body. Just as she felt his hardness dip tentatively into her entry, he stilled. “I can’t, Hermione.”

 

He didn’t move, only shook his head. “You’re young and vibrant and beautiful and I’m just this dirty old man that when he sees you, wants to bend you over the desk for a good fucking.

 

“You are fearless and I’m scared of everything; paranoid. As a teenager you went off with your best friends to defeat an evil. You never complained or hid; you just fought and did your best to protect your friends. I admire that, but I can’t live up to that.”

 

Hermione blinked back tears and lifted her hips slightly. She needed him in her; to heal, for comfort; whatever, but she needed him. “Kingsley, please. Whatever you think about me… I’m a person; a woman. I’m a woman who loves a man and at this moment, I don’t know what else to say or do to make you believe that you are worthy of me and I choose you.”

 

It was enough, because in the next moment he thrust, burying himself inside of her. It made her back arch and the breath from her body loudly and ruggedly exhale in response.

 

Hot, wet, and tight. They panted and moaned their pleasure. “More,” she urged.

 

Kingsley shook his head and pulled out of her. She was about to begin yelling in frustration when he kneeled and covered her swollen clit and puffy lips with his mouth licking and suckling. The gentle tug of suction caused her to scream her satisfaction and push his head closer to her spread legs. His large hands held onto her hips as she continued buck and he continued to slurp. Before she could clear the stars from her eyes, he entered her again, this time fully seated.

 

It took her breath away. In and out, hard pleasure-pain coupled with shallow pulses of pleasurable micro-orgasms. Hermione came thrice more; her skin was slick with sweat and her bones had turned to jelly.   She was still pushing against him wanting more, but she was losing energy fast. “One more time, love, for me,” he urged just as his fingers stroked her clit. It worked. Her inner walls pulsed once more for him and her raspy voice shrieked its contentment.

 

Kingsley hissed. “You feel so fucking good, Hermione, but I have to come. I need to. On your belly.” He didn’t wait for her to consent; he flipped her over, pulled her bum in the air, and ran his tongue over her sensitive pussy before angling his cock and pushing inside of her.

 

She could only grunt and mewl as he pounded into her erratically. He roared his praise of the small witch beneath him as he climaxed.

 

They lay there panting, sated. “I’m not letting go, Kingsley,” Hermione whispered to him with a kiss.

 

A smile graced his features. “I don’t want you to… How do you think the public would react to a husband and wife team running the Ministry?”

 

The End.

 

 


End file.
